Mafiesto
by Ashvarden
Summary: Johnny and Dallas pay a visit to the Slash J, where revelations occur. One-shot.


The T-bird jerked to a sudden halt, kicking up billows of dust. They looked like mini tornadoes in the bright afternoon sun. No surprise – Tulsa in July was one big cough-cloud, and the Slash J was no different.

_Just great_, I couldn't help but think.

I wasn't feeling real enthusiastic. Dally'd mentioned a trip out to the Slash J earlier when he was at the Curtis's place and it sounded better than going home to my folks. Besides, horse racing was one of the few things that could genuinely excite Dally. It was nice seeing another side to him besides the cold, tough hood, even if I had to venture onto a dusty horse ranch to witness it.

The engine and the radio both cut off, and Buck and Dally piled out of the front seats. I squirmed under my seat belt and followed, abandoning the feed bags that'd been stacked next to me.

Dally apparently had no plans to put me to work. Snatching a handful of my shirt sleeve, he exclaimed, "C'mere, Johnnycake! You gotta see my horse," and dragged me off.

I shot a guilty glance back at Buck as we walked away. He hollered a few choice words at Dally for not helping, but let us go. I was quietly grateful. I didn't have any problem with lending a hand – especially since he'd drove us here – but I doubted my shoulders could take it. I could feel the two-by-four welts stretching and pulling every time I moved my arms, and they stung somethin' awful.

He led me to a stall halfway down the isle. A beat-up saddle and bridle perched on its half-door, next to a cardboard nameplate. Dally's doctor-scribble handwriting spelled out 'Mafiesto' in black marker.

I peered in and got a shock.

See, I was expecting some shaggy little thing, probably with mean scars and scraggly fur. Dally's horse wasn't nothin' like that. Well, technically it wasn't his – Buck owned it – but it sure was his favorite and I could see why. Long inky mane, matching coat. The bars of sunlight lining his back made him gleam. His neck had a proud arch to it, too. He just screamed classy and expensive, which doesn't quite add up if you're from round these parts. How did Buck afford something like _this_?

Dally hopped the stall door, because of course he can't ever do things the easy way, and right off the bat the horse took a snap at him. Dally elbowed it in the nose – firm but not too hard – to make it back off.

"Quit it," he snapped, and I was glad he wasn't using that tone on me. Dally's temper ain't nothing to fool with.

"Throw me a brush." He made grabby motions at me until I crossed the isle and rooted through one of the grooming kits for a decent one. The bristles were mashed and dirt-caked on all of 'em, so I tossed him the cleanest I could find. That sure ain't saying much.

I draped my arms over top of the saddle. Leather creaked under my elbow, and when I glanced down I could make out blood stains on the suede seat. Little dark drops, like somebody'd had a busted nose and couldn't stop it pouring all over.

"I ever tell you why he's mine?" Dally crouched and scrubbed at a patch of flaking mud on the horse's right hock. Mafiesto stomped, impatient, and Dally escaped a crushed hand by mere inches. Those hooves were big around as the pancakes Soda makes – and I gotta say, he makes 'em pretty darn big.

"I don't recall," I admitted.

"'Cuz he's wild," Dally said, pride and affection softening his voice. It was a combination maybe half a dozen people had ever heard him use, and only ever directed at me. "None of these pussies can handle him."

He brushed Mafiesto's back now in brisk, sweeping strokes. The horse and brush were both real grimy, but I didn't say nothing 'bout it. Dally knew what he was doing. He smirked at me over top of Mafiesto's withers, but before he could say anything else he was interrupted.

"Don't let him fool ya, kid. It's 'cuz he's a vicious, ornery brute just like ol' Dallas here!" Buck came strutting down the isle towards us. A feed bag was hefted over his shoulder, and he'd tugged his beat-up cowboy hat low. Probably still nursing a hangover. "Two of a kind, they are."

"You shut your goddamn mouth, Merrill," Dally shot back, chucking the brush at him. It missed by a good foot and thumped the wall in an explosion of hair and hay-dust. I felt a sneeze coming on just seeing it.

"Just speakin' the truth." Buck's tone was mild, his hicker-than-thou accent bleeding into every word. The brush-splosion hadn't even made him flinch.

Dally snorted. "Don't go listenin' to that liar, Johnnycake. He's just too much horse for these pansies!"

Glancing over at me, Buck said, "Truth is, ain't nobody dumb enough to go near him except for Dally. He's got himself a nice little death wish."

"Then why'd you keep him? If he's so dangerous, I mean?" I had to ask. I ain't Buck's biggest fan, but I don't figure he'd hold onto a horse just for looking sharp. That's downright soc-y, and that's one thing nobody's ever accused him of being.

Buck shrugged. "Runs like you wouldn't believe. He ain't got the prettiest personality, but he's a winner. Kinda like Dally here," he said, smiling all sly-like. "Like I said, kid, they're two of a kind."

"I count myself lucky I got more in common with that horse than with you," Dally groused, shifting my arms out of the way to get at the saddle. He hefted it up with one arm. "Fuckin' Hank Williams, man. That's just nasty."

My eyes followed him back to the horse and got a surprise. Against the odds, Mafiesto was clean.

Maybe his dark coat hid the dirt, but either way he looked sharp. Real striking – kind of a picture-negative match for Dally, who was no good at blending in either. His coloring and feral attitude wouldn't have let him even if he wanted to.

Buck disappeared through a door down the isle. Not a stall door, but a real one. I ignored the distant shuffles and crashes – good lord, what was he doin' in there? – in favor of watching Dally tack up. Every motion was quick, almost absent-minded. He'd done it a million times and it showed.

The blanket and saddle he tossed on first, both at once. Mafiesto shifted restlessly, but permitted it.

Then Dally yanked the cinch tight, and it was like somebody'd fired off a gun. He hopped out of the way real quick-like as Mafiesto bolted sideways, eyes rolling.

In his frenzy, Mafiesto hammered one of his rear hooves against the stall wall. After that he sidestepped a little more, head cocked up steeply, nostrils flared. I could see the hoof-shaped dent he'd sunk into the wood, right along with a dozen others.

Dally shortened the stirrups, putting 'em high. Dal's real tuff, but he ain't big. It's his savageness, how he puts every little ounce of rage into his swing and keeps going like he can't feel pain. That's what earned him his rep, not his build. Don't get me wrong, he ain't no scrawny thing – 'specially not in the thighs and biceps, pitching hay and riding horse are good for those sorts of places I guess – but, well … he sure ain't Darry. Hell, he probably comes about chin-high on ol' Superman.

"You ever hear them stories 'bout Pecos Bill and the Widowmaker?"

Dally hiked an eyebrow at me. Absurdly, it reminded me of Two-Bit. They weren't nothing alike, aside from the fact that they were both good in a rumble and put the moves on anything with a nice rack and a pretty face, but it hit me like that all the same.

"No," I said.

The honest truth is, I ain't much into horses. I couldn't tell Dally that, though. He'd think I was a real baby for being scared of 'em. Even more than that, though, I didn't wanna see him disappointed. I think he got a kick out of introducing me to his horse, and I didn't want him thinking I didn't appreciate it. There weren't many people who took the time to explain things for me, spend time with me just 'cuz they wanted to, but Dally was one of them. His fuse was a whole lot longer for me than it was for anybody else.

No one, least of all me, understood why.

" . . . tamed him right down," Dally was saying as I tuned back in. Was he still goin' on 'bout Bill Whatshisface? Who was that, anyway? A rodeo buddy?

Dally was fiddling with the bridle now, arranging straps and moving notches around. Buckles jingled every time he adjusted something. After a minute he had it all ready and tried to force the horse's mouth open, jamming his thumb in at the back where the muzzle halved.

Mafiesto jerked his head up and flattened his ears, but Dally followed him and got a hand up on top of his head. He pressed up with the bit, real steady, and a miniature battle of wills occurred. Dally's stubborn like a mule, though. Eventually he won out.

Mafiesto gnashed his mouth, fighting the bit. Gosh a'mighty, those teeth were huge. So was the rest of him, all muscle on top of muscle and a head near as long as Dally's torso.

"Here we go, kid. All set." Dally shoved the door wide and led Mafiesto out by the reins. I followed hastily.

We circled around to the back of the barn, where a stack of tarped bales, a couple hitching posts, and a rusty water trough took up most of the space. Dally swung into the saddle with the ease of many hours wiled away on horseback, then waited it out while Mafiesto side-stepped and pawed at the dirt.

Mafiesto turned his head and I swear he looked straight at me. I imagined the fires of hell shining in those dark, agitated eyes.

Dally circled him a couple times, real light with the reins. Truthfully, I couldn't tell if he was even steering. He didn't seem frustrated, though, so I figured it was going all right. Dal gets antsy quicker than just about anybody I know, except maybe my father.

"Wanna ride, Johnny?" he asked, grinning.

I wanted to say no thanks, but the words wouldn't come out. It'd melt that grin right off his face, and seeing Dally happy was rare enough that I didn't wanna ruin it.

He stuck a hand out and I took it. He kicked his nearest foot out of the stirrup, too, and I jammed my sneaker into it for leverage. With a quick heave – for as small as he was, Dally sure could yank when he had a mind to – he had me up across Mafiesto's back.

I scrambled my way into a straddle position as Mafiesto shifted 'round restlessly. Dally had the reins pulled in tight, keeping his head up so he couldn't buck.

Eventually the horse settled down, and Dally nudged him into a walk. I gripped tight to Dally – not just to his leather jacket, which was smooth and slicker than a wet fish, but to his sides. I could feel his ribs shift under my palms with every stride. He didn't say nothing 'bout me getting grabby, though, so I left them there.

Within a few strides, I registered the pain of the saddle digging into my thighs. I had worse things to focus on, though – the burn of my two-by-four welts. I clutched tighter despite the bright spark of pain it caused.

"Glory, Dal," I blurted to distract myself. "He sure is tall."

We'd started off real slow and easy, but it felt forced. Mafiesto was itchin' for a run. I could tell by the way Dally kept reinin' him back. He probably didn't want me falling off and getting my head stomped in. That wouldn't be too tuff.

Finally, Dally got tired of running a glorified kiddy ride. Twisting so I could half-see his face, his eyes alight, he warned me, "Hold on tight, Johnnycake!"

Just like that, he thumped his heels against the horse's sides and hollered, "Yah!"

I felt Mafiesto tense beneath us, and we were off like a shot. I almost tumbled clear off his back. Only my hold on Dally kept me from getting real intimate with the ground.

Every jolting stride slammed my thighs against the saddle and threatened to toss me off. The half-healed bruises and gashes from my father – courtesy of his favorite weapon, the buckle end of a belt – throbbed. Even if Dally didn't end up with bruises from how tight I was squeezing, I sure would.

I clenched my jaw tight to keep from making a sound. I scrunched my eyes shut, too, burying my face against the collar of Dally's jacket. Maybe if I didn't look it wouldn't be so terrifying.

Who was I tryin' to kid?

Dally reined him down to a lope, then a trot – bumpy as they come, too – and finally to a walk. I breathed a little easier. So did Dally, after he hissed out, "Jesus, kid. Ease up on the death grip," and I relaxed my arms a little. I kept my hands fisted in his shirt, though – didn't pay to be careless, and he was known for being unpredictable.

Funny how that works, ain't it? Him being unpredictable makes it so people expect it from him, and then on the rare occasions he goes with the flow, everybody acts like the apocalypse is coming and they'd best keep an eye out for the Four Horsemen.

Just as we were coming 'round the corner of the barn, Buck appeared. He was swinging his buckets and whistling some pokey country tune, but he froze when he saw us riding double. Probably shocked that Dally'd got me up on a horse. I ain't never spoke up about my mistrust of them, but it's not like I can hide it.

For somebody so smart, Dally sure is blind to things he doesn't want to see.

Dally grinned and waved lazily. That snapped Buck out of his daze, and he started cussing something fierce.

"Goddamn you, Winston!" Buck bellowed. "You get him off that horse right now! He ain't no dime pony ride, and I ain't payin' no fucking hospital bills!" He stormed over, buckets abandoned in the dirt, the last remnants of water leaking out and forking into tiny rivers.

"Get the stick outta your ass," Dally grumbled in response. "We was just about done, anyways."

I slid off first, and my knees felt funny when I touched down. Kinda wobbly, but I forced myself to stay upright. Dally patted Mafiesto's neck a couple times, real fond-like, and then vaulted down from the saddle, too.

I was folded in half by that point, hands braced on my thighs. I bet my face was whiter than Dally's hair.

"You feelin' all right, Johnny?" he asked, eyeing me with something like concern. It's hard to identify softer emotions on Dally's face. They just seem so foreign. He's too hard, too bitter to let much compassion leak through the mask. I like that word, compassion. Pony showed me it out of one of his books once, and it's been stuck in my head ever since. "You're kinda pale."

"The kid'll be fine, Dallas," Buck gritted out. "I want a word with you. _Now_."

Dally took his time about it, still wearing that little half-smirk, and when he handed me the reins he did it with deliberate nonchalance. He wasn't in a hurry to obey Buck, and he wanted us all to know it. Dallas Winston answers to nobody.

"Don't go lettin' him wander off, 'kay?" he instructed as he followed Buck around the side of the barn, a swagger in his step. It was built in, I think, just as much as his blue eyes and lynx ears and tense enthusiasm for violence.

I reached out to rub Mafiesto's nose, real cautious-like. Those teeth flashed, and I didn't yank my hand back fast enough to avoid getting nicked. I felt a sharp pinch, and when I looked down I could see the blood welling up.

Goddamn. Just . . . _goddamn_. I could see why nobody wanted to bother with him. He was vicious.

Then again, didn't most people feel the same way about Dally? They took a glance and saw bitter, powder-keg Dallas Winston, the kind of guy that could make you feel snake-bit just with his eyes. Those eyes were arctic-cold and unnerved everybody. Socs, the fuzz, hell, even _Darry_ at one point or another. He had his upsides, too, though. Loyal as they came, and whenever I needed a patch-up or a floor to crash on he never turned me away. It could be four a.m., in the middle of a party, or the day he go back from the cooler. It didn't matter. If he was around, he'd take care of things.

And as Dally strolled 'round the edge of the barn, Buck at his heels, I decided that was all that mattered. Dallas Winston might only be good to a half-dozen people in the whole world, but he deserved a lot more credit than people wanted to give him.

Sunlight reflected off his hair as he approached, and I was once again startled by its white-gold brilliance. Dally was no angel, but he sure could pass for one in the right lighting.

He accepted the reins back, ruffling my hair with his free hand. He pulled a face at the hair grease that smeared his palm, but pawned it off onto his jeans without a fuss.

"Feeling enlightened after today's trip, Johnnycake?" He grinned, patting Mafiesto's inky shoulder.

He was talking about the horse, but that wasn't what I had in mind when I said, "Yeah, I'm seein' the light, Dal."

"Tuff. That's real tuff, kid." He coaxed Mafiesto into a walk, headed back to the barn. They walked side by side, complete opposites with the same soul.

Shaking the blood from my fingertips, I followed in their wake.

**. The End .**


End file.
